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THOMAS CARLYLE ON THE 



THAMES EMBANKMENT, CHELSEA 



^.Sf 




6CT 13 1920 



©CI,A597787 



DEDICATORY 

In friendly sympathy you passed 
Through narrow street and sordid scene, 
Having a vision, through the dust. 
Of sweeter things that might have been. 

In rare serenity you saw 
Through superficial wordliness 
Those nobler moods, that, patient, wait 
Till love is more and self is less. 

The dust of crowded life was ours; 

You ever breathed a purer air; 

The while your feet trod all our ways 

You walked with Death, and found him fair. 

And they who speak of Dust to Dust, 
Speak not of you, but ws, who tread 
Foot-sore and. gray, the beaten track — 
Not you — oh young, immortal Dead! 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dedicatory viii 

The Tenderness That Is 1 

To My Children 2 

The Blazing Log 4 

Dust 6 

The Ash-man 7 

In the Attic 9 

An XVIIth Century Portrait, in an East- 
Side Junk Shop 10 

A Little Nigger 11 

The Missionary 13 

Miracles 15 

From the Seventh Floor of the Shoreham, 

Washington 16 

A Prayer 18 

To Last Year's Leaves 20 

The Road of Love 21 

A Song of the Road 23 

To My Daughter 25 

At the Opera 27 

The Mother 29 

Night 31 

Patiently They Waited 32 

Responsibility 34 

[ix] 



Contents 



PAGE 

The Hand of a Stranger 35 

To A God-child 36 

The Mistletoe 38 

To AN Adopted Child 40 

God's Baby 43 

Thomas Carlyle 45 

Piccadilly "Flower-girls" 46 

In Old Bruton Churchyard 48 

A Lost Talisman 50 

To THE Wounded 51 

In a Ripening Field 53 

To My Grape-vine 55 

To My Sister 57 

Worship 59 

The Soul of Your Mother 60 

Even So 61 

Out of the Dust 62 

Babbling of Green Fields 64 

Not While the River Flows 67 

From Room 310, Providence Hospital, Wash- 
ington 69 

My Daughter 71 

To Death 72 

Perspective 74 

Could I Have Known 76 

To One Invisible 78 

Life and Death 80 

Unity 82 

An Invitation 84 

New Fields and Fair 87 

Shall I Learn to Fear? 89 

[X] 



^ =?*r. 




OUT OF THE DUST 



OUT OF THE DUST 



THE TENDERNESS THAT IS 

THERE was a time when all she thought or 
dreamed 
Was that the world might learn to know her name; 
When all that life might offer her, had seemed 
But trivial when compared with earthly fame. 

Brave eyes, calm eyes, just, gentle and serene, 
Looking on all the world with kindly light! 
She gazed into their depths and read, I ween, 
That they would guide her restless feet aright. 

Dear baby voices! small caressing hands. 
And sweet, mysterious, wondering baby eyes! 
Humbly and thankfully she understands 
In loving these her whole life's labor lies. 

Into her own full heart she dips the pen 
And proudly writes she down such words as these: 
All vain regret for aught that might have been 
Lies buried in the tenderness that is! 

ri] 



TO MY CHILDREN 

DEAR little people, do you forget 
How we roamed the fields when the grass was 
wet, 
Knee-deep in daisies and clover? 

How the pale arbutus, in the spring, 
Hid away like a guilty thing 
Under the brown leaves' cover? 

Can we not smell the fragrance yet, 

Of the mint in bloom, and the "bouncing Bet" 

All the old meadows over? 

The "butter-and-eggs" on the edge of the wood, 
And how bold the "Black-eyed Susan" stood, 
Awaiting the bee, her lover? 

And the purple thistle's downy seed, 

And the noble height of the "Joe Pye" weed, 

And how we would discover, 

After all other birds were flown. 
The gold-finch nest of thistle-down, 
When nesting time was over? 
[2] 



To My Children 



How we watched the wild-geese flying high 
Against the "water-melon sky" 
When summer-time was over? 

And the keen excitegent of a day 
When the air was chill and the sky was gray, 
And breathless, you ran to me, to say 
"Here's the year's first snow-flake, Muwer!" 




[3] 



THE BLAZING LOG 

I SING a song as I gaily die — 
Heigh ho! for the blazing log! 
A song o' branches that touch the sky, 

Heigh ho! for the blazing log! 
I sing a song o' many nests — 
Of an old, old tree and its timid guests — 
Of a cool, cool shade where the traveler rests! 
Heigh ho! for the blazing log. 

Come, little children, toast your feet 
Heigh ho! for the blazing log! 

I'll sing you a song that's true and sweet — 
Heigh ho! for the blazing log! 

I'll sing a song of a ship at sea — 

It's mighty ribs were taken from me. 

I'll sing o' the things I used to be! 
Heigh ho! for the blazing log. 

So little children, gather around: 
Heigh ho! for the blazing log! 

My crackling maketh a merry sound. 
Heigh ho! for the blazing log. 

My golden tongues are the lost sunshine, 
[4] 



The Blazing Log 



Stored up in those mighty arms o' mine. 
Their light and warmth glad I resign. 
Heigh ho! for the blazing log. 

I sing as my crumbling embers glow. 

Heigh ho; for the dying log! 
My song sweet children now is low, 

Heigh ho! for the dying log! 
I have done my part, I have filled my place, 
And I turn to ashes with goodly grace, 
And a last red glow on each lovely face. 

Good-bye! Good-bye! to the brave old log! 




rs] 



DUST 

AS motes of common dust, 
Seen in the sunshine, 
Seem dancing grains of gold, 
The day's dull doings, 
Touched with perfect patience. 
Rare values may unfold. 
Nor is the grain of gold 
More truly lovely 
Than that same merry mote. 
Riding upon the radiance 
Of a sun-beam — 
But watch it sail and float! 



r6] 



THE ASH-MAN 

THE Ash-man's face is rough and red, 
His hands are coarse; 
(Could they be otherwise?) 

His voice is hoarse 

Yet from the ashes on his rounds to-day 
I saw him take 

An artificial rose 

Shabby it was, for long had been the way 

It traveled, from a German factory 

Through dealers' hands, to deck 

Milady's charms. 

First, on an evening gown; 

Next on the hat she wore 

On rainy days; 

Then, passed on to her maid, 

Thence to the waste-basket. 

Thence to the dump. 

But no 

1 saw the ash-man shake 

The ashes from it, brush it 'gainst his sleeve, 

A sleeve thread-bare and thin, 

And stiff with dirt 

[7] 



The Ash-man 



Then carefully 

Remove the battered derby from his head, 

And place the cast-off rose 

Safe in the crown. 

Perhaps he has a sickly child at home 
Who Sight find pleasure in the dingy thing. 

Oh, God! Who pluckest from the dust of earth 

Full many a faded rose 

Of human life! 

Oh! God! Is life so poor? 

Are real roses, 

Roses all red and sweet and fresh with dew 

So rare? 

The ash-man's rose has thorns unknown to him, 
That pierce my heart. 



m 



IN THE ATTIC 

THINGS useful long ago, broken and rusty; 
Portraits, forgotten, as the years have sped. 
Poor faces, veiled in cobwebs, dim and dusty, 
And letters to the dead, writ by the dead. 

My children love these darkened, queer recesses, 
And laughter shakes the rafters when they play, 
As, masquerading in their grandma's dresses, 
They storm the attic every rainy day! 




[9] 



AN XVIIlTH CENTURY PORTRAIT, IN AN EAST 
SIDE JUNK SHOP 

LAMELY you stand there, in your velvet coat, 
The lace frills dangling 'round your idle 
hands; 
Your haughty eyes turned on the dirty street. 

Through which none passes by that understands 

None, your pathetic history to trace. 
None, to restore you to some fitting place. 

The leavings of the stately centuries 
Scattered around you lie, grown foul and strange; 
Children's old-fashioned garments, gray with dust, 
Bear silent witness love and manners change; 
And broken and forgotten, two quaint fans, 
Tossed with old boots and shoes and pots and pans. 

Candlesticks, censers, 'broidered chasubles. 

Stolen long since from consecrated halls. 

Armor, rare carvings, ragged tapestries 

That might have graced your own ancestral walls, 

Scornful, superior — in this odd melee, 

You stand — poor ghost of a departed day. 



rio] 



A LITTLE NIGGER 

A CHILD is injured by a trolley car, 
A leg is crushed; 
Long months he lies within a ward, 
Skin from his mother's body grafted 
Upon his own. 
And little friends, 

Other small boys who have played with him, 
Stand chattering on the corners of the street, 
Their voices dropped, 
Their sunny faces grave, 

Speaking of him 

And how he cannot play! 

They picture him the long sweet summer day 

In his white cot 

No fishing, baseball, dusty tramps, 

For him; 

No fabulous, adventurous, grimy games 

For him 

And twenty, stirred by generosity, 

Offer of their own skin 

So many inches, as a gift to him. 

One colored child. 

Big-eyed and sympathetic, hears the talk. 

fii] 



A Little Nigger 



Perhaps the injured boy has been kind 

In some small, now forgotten way, to him; 

Taken his part, 

In some old boyish brawl. 

Or made a place for him, in soge brave game. 

He offers too 

To give of his bronzed flesh 

All he dare spare — all surgeons will accept. 

Days pass; they call not on him; 

Then he goes 

Straight to the mother, saying simply, 

"See! 

If my brown skin cannot be used 



I'll give the palms of both my hands- 
See! They are white!" 



ri2] 



THE MISSIONARY 

A FRIEND of every man, 
Servant of each; 
Not gifted with great gifts 
Or silver speech — 
Not over-learned and not over-wise 
I picture him, 
But to the brim 
Filled up with love and patient sacrifice. 

A figure slightly bent, 

Sharp-featured, tanned ; 

Neatly and poorly clothed; 

His pastoral hand 

To the sick, tender; to the erring, kind; 

But see him meet 

Waifs of the street. 

Tramps of the road, 

Each with his load 

To rich, to poor, he shows the brother's 
mind. 

A tranquil soul it is, 
This soul of his. 
God's great designs 

ri3] 



The Missionary 



Include his little work, 

And he combines 

God's plan with his, and sees them then as 

one; 
Even in his dreams, 
Heaven's kingdom seems 
The nearer, for such work as he has done. 

The dear illusions last. 

The while he lives; 

He reasons little, grumbles none, 

But gives — and gives 

Substance, vitality, love, labor, time; 
Reading his eyes 
We realize 

Life's lame achievements seeg to him 
sublime. 

To our hard world, he' shows 

A loving face, 

And in his scheme, its coarse discourage- 
ments 

Can find no place; 

Are, by his very innocence, disarmed; 

His child-like faith 

Even to dark death. 

Leads him all pit-falls past, serene, un- 
harmed. 

ri4] 



MIRACLES 

SIMPLE the evidences of God's care, 
And righteous will 
And love, that still 
Work miracles among us everywhere. 

At times the very soul is sick and numb, 

And famished. 

Begging for bread 

And then as if from Heaven, there falls a crumb. 

Humbly a grateful hand is stretched, to take 

That crumb, heaven-sent 

That sacrament 

With which new hopes in the worn heart awake. 

As miracles, the tenderer moments come; 

Through the hard years 

Kisses and tears. 
Like scanty snow-flakes in a wild hail-storm. 

One soothing touch can heal a world of pain. 

One magic word. 

Though rarely heard. 
Refresh the soul like sudden summer rain. 
[15] 



FROM THE SEVENTH FLOOR OF THE SHORE- 
HAM, WASHINGTON 

AN old-world picturesqueness 
Lies over Washington, 
Clubs and homes and rival churches 
In the golden evening sun. 

Catholic and Covenanter, 
The Cathedral's rising spires. 
Melt in one heavenly harmony 
In the day's funeral fires. 

One mellow sky above them. 
One glory on them all; 
It touches sturdy meeting-house, 
And sculptured gothic wall 

The red dome of Saint Matthew's, 
And The Covenant's gray tower 
Blend, a silhouette colossal 
In this still vesper hour. 

ri6] 



At the Shoreham 



And shall we giss the message. 

As distinctions fade away 

This Gospel, for our comfort, 
That the things eternal — stay? 




ri7] 



A PRAYER 

LORD, give to me that lump of clay 
Thy Master-potters throw away; 
Because my own so faulty mind 
Sees not the flaws that they must find; 
The coarseness their skilled hands reveal 
My clumsier fingers will not feel. 
So I might mould, with tender care, 
Some vessel in thy work to share. 

Lord, give to me that bit of ground 
For which no other use is found; 
With sunshine, water, love and care. 
Something worth while might flourish there; 

A patch of corn — a rose or two 

Where only weeds and thistles grew. 
Of thy green world, one nook redeemed. 
And shown more precious than it seemed. 

Lord, give to me that human mind, 
So dull, so crude, so unrefined, 
So uninviting and so rough 
That those who deal in better stuff 

Have not for it, the time to spare 

fl8] 



A Prayer 



Lord, let it be thy servant's share! 
Through all its warp and woof, to prove 
Room for thy golden thread of love! 

Lord, give to me that soul forlorn. 
To whom thy message must be borne; 
One, to whose self-accusing eyes 

Himself seems worth no sacrifice 

When he is swamped in deep distress, 

And conscious of his nothingness 

When he has touched the bottom, Lord, 
Send me, with Love's atoning word! 



[19] 



TO LAST YEAR'S LEAVES 

SAY! Wee men in khaki! 
Oh! whither away? 
Rolling ffiadly my lawn o'er. 
This blustering March day? 
More than all my computing, 
To the southward you sweep. 
The north-east wind with you, 
Your vanguard to keep! 

"Grey eyes at the window! 
We brown ghosts are driven 
Over the bare earth, 
Under the bleak heaven. 
Yet know not the wherefore. 
Nor the wild journey's end, 
As our armies whirl on 
To Eternity — Friend!" 



[20] 



THE ROAD OF LOVE 

FROM the first white love 
Of a babe for its mother, 
To a love for kittens — 
For dolls — for play; 
Then the nobler love 
For playmate or brother, 
And a love of fresh fields 
On an April day. 



And then — undefined- 
A something sadder, 



A longing for solitude. 

Silence, shade 

Then a flood of feeling 
Prouder, gladder. 
In the red, red love 
Of a man for a maid. 

To a new conception 
Of right and duty; 
A fine, impersonal 
Charity; 

Then a better standard 
[21] 



The Rood of Love 



Of work and beauty, 
And a godlike love 
For humanity. 

So, through its many 

Phases flowing, 

It swells at last 

To a mighty flood; 

All grace along its course 

Bestowing, 

Till it pours its all 

In the sea of Good. 



[22] 



A SONG OF THE ROAD 

IN the mirror of my motor 
What a fleeting world I see, 
From my corner of the back seat 

In my dust-coat of pongee 

All the background transient, shifting, 
In the foreground always — ^me 

Like an endless reel unwinding 
Little pictures never stop; 
Village street and cosy homestead, 
Shadowy wood and golden crop; 
From the sweet, low, briney marshes 
To the cloud-capped mountain-top. 

Set within this changing high-way 
Dimmed with dust-clouds that arise, 
I alone can see behind us. 
Thus renewed, the road that lies 
Past already, soon forgotten. 
Only clear to tear-washed eyes. 

On the front seat sit my children; 
Theirs, to watch the road ahead; 
[23] 



A Song of the Road 



Mine, to read, in small reflections, 
^^ays our whirling wheels have sped; 
Theirs (and youth's) to scan the future; 
Mine, the things accomplished. 




r24] 



TO MY DAUGHTER 

THE snows have melted all away, 
The dear sun gathers strength each day, 
The wee buds swell on every tree, 
And my sweet daughter's home to me! 

The blue-bird's in the old fencepost, 
(Which of his colors love I most? 
His back and wings, of Heaven's own blue, 
Or breast, the warm earth's russet hue? 

The while his tender notes pulsate 
Through all the air, to reach his mate, 
What happy thoughts he can suggest. 
Heaven on his wings. Earth on his breast ! ) 

The apple-trees — all in the flush 
Of virgin petals' modest blush, 
The dafi^odils low in the grass. 
Bow graciously, to see her pass. 

The hyacinths are still more sweet 
For just a touch of her light feet. 
And all the leaves responsive nod. 

And every green blade of the sod 

[25] 



To My Daughter 



The gnarled old oaks with pleasure stir, 

The wrens and robins welcome her, 

And echo, from full, living throats, 

Her old piano's wheezy notes. 
******* 

Added to April's melodies 

Her sweet, true touch upon the keys 

All better impulses awakes 

The cook her stove in rhythm shakes 



The laundress, bending o'er her tubs, 
HuBas Baptist hymn-tunes as she rubs- 
And Gertie wields her broom in time— 
And mother's moved to pen a rhyme — 



The straining horses on the hill. 

Prick up their ears, and stand quite still; 

The plow-boys whistle cheerily. 

The whole world's happy as can be 

This willowy, sweet woman thing 
Adds a new meaning to the spring; 
The light that shines in her sweet eyes 
Lends lustre to unclouded skies. 

The world, in chorus and accord. 

Unites in loving Mary Lord; 
And Nature's gladder, as I see. 
Because my daughter's home to me. 

r26] 



AT THE OPERA 

I SEE no face to equal hers, 
Among the wealthy dowagers; 
The physiognomies of such 
As love their bodies over-ffiuch. 

In "dog-collars" of precious pearls, 
In purchased pompadours and curls, 
Their double-chins massaged away, 
And jewels in a grand display, 
With backs and arms and bosoms bare, 
I note the cold and bored stare. 

As — lorgnettes leveled at the stage 

They fight 'gainst weariness and age. 

But of another world is she; 

A world of charm and poetry; 

Oblivious of time and place, 

I hold her hand, I watch her face. 

Unblushing in my ignorance, 

I do not ask for one small glance; 

Caruso sings for her alone 

She thrills to every glorious tone — 
She holds her breath, her great eyes shine- 
[27] 



At the Opera 



Each note of Farrar's is divine — 
She has forgotten earth — ^and me- 
Where we sit in the balcony. 



I know no pleasure equals hers, 
Among the rich old dowagers — 
I know no pleasure equals mine, 
Who see her lovely sweet eyes shine. 



r28] 



THE MOTHER 

AS the men go marching by, 
See her forward press, and scan 
With a mother's anxious eye, 
Every one, and man by man. 

Khaki-clad, alert and young, 
Swinging in unbroken line 



But she pleads, with stammering tongue, 
"Where is — he? Oh, which is — mine?" 

The quick feet pass: the streets are clear: 
Settled the dust: the echo dies: 
And one by one, the stars appear. 
And smile into her troubled eyes. 

In all that army, not to find 
Her son, her only and her own! 
Then Heaven sends to her sad mind 
The thought — ^he is not hers alone 



The selfish pain is swept aside- 



She sees him part of one great move; 
[29] 



The Mother 



Her heart is filled with sudden pride, 
And opens to a larger love. 



The sense of personal loss is gone 

She claims as hers, that vanished line — 
Each man of all those men, her "son" 
"Not one, oh God! but all, are mine!" 




*»^^^ 



[30] 



NIGHT 

WAR pauses not at sunset; nor does hate 
Turn, in the twilight's quiet hour, to peace; 
None of its cruel purposes abate. 
Nor deadly enmities at evening cease. 
Throughout the silences, the Rulers plot, 
Reckless of all but their autocracy; 

And 'neath the moonlight, sons and lovers rot 

The fathers of the world that was to be. 

How sadly, while their little babies sleep. 

Women sit wide-eyed, and in patience wait; 

Love staggers, at the thought of trench and field; 

Fear grips their hearts: they cannot speak nor weep. 

And hope grows faint, that once was strong and great. 

Night bares the pain the brave day had concealed. 



[31] 



PATIENTLY THEY WAITED 

PATIENTLY they waited, 
Till, the months completed, 
They might see your eyes; 
Little azure blossoms 
Lifted from their bosoms. 
Fallen from the skies. 

Now their souls are yearning 
For your quick returning, 
With what patient pain! 
Brave and uncomplaining. 
To their fears maintaining. 
You will come again! 

While your young feet wander, 
Theirs, to pray, and ponder 

All the meaning strange 

Yesterdays — to-morrows 

Joys and fears and sorrows 

Birth and death and change! 

All earth's mothers, giving 
Sons and substance, living 
[32] 



Patiently They Waited 



Underneath the rod; 
All red woe assuaging. 
War with evil waging, 
Bind the world to God. 




rss] 



w 



RESPONSIBILITY 
(Am I my brother's keeper?) 
E cannot bind our influence: it will roll, 



A steady stream, o'er-leaping our control, 
And touching lives of which we never dream. 
It pauses not, nor dies: indeed, 't would seem 
The one side infinite, of this poor life: 
Though we may pass beyond the stress and strife, 

Far out of reach, ourselves, forgotten — gone 

The work we did, or great or small, lives on. 
It must. 

The influence of other men. 
We pass unconsciously along, and then. 
By some strange process, imperceptibly, 
Or in a swift and terrible degree. 
Are all men harmed or healed, unclean or pure. 
Each, is his brother's keeper. 

This is sure. 
Unto this moving flood, not one may say. 
As spoke the Danish King, one by-gone day. 

To the wild ocean, seething at his feet 

To the white surf, that rolled his voice to greet — 
"Ho ! Thou in-coming Tide ! Here be thou stayed ! 
Here, at my will, be thy proud waves delayed!" 

r34] 



THE HAND OF A STRANGER 

HE could not see her face, only her hair 
Above the green back of her Pullman chair, 
And yet he felt profoundly, the strange charm 
Of one thin hand upon the cushioned arm. 

Oh, tell-tale hands! In every line, we trace 
Character often hidden in the face; 
Or generous or selfish, cold or kind; 
Outlines and texture that index the mind. 




[35] 



TO A GOD-CHILD 

AS some young mother, terror-stricken, sees 
The child that she in agony has borne, 
Too sudden weaned, too harshly from her torn. 
Yet finds a hungry changeling at her knees, 
And in its greater need, forgets her grief. 
And gives herself to it, and feels it drain 

At once away the fever and the pain 

Its clinging hands, its cool mouth's sweet relief. 
So holds it close, so rocks it in her arms. 
So watches it and learns again to smile, 
So counts in love its ever growing charms. 
And treasures all its graces infantile 

Even I to you, who in my hour of need 
Brought me your own young thirsty soul to feed. 

******* 

We met, and you were but the merest slip 
Of immaturity, a little shy. 
Appealing thoughtfulness in brow and eye, 
And over-sensitive, the chin and lip. 
My mother-mind a lonely spirit felt. 
And loneliness and vouth companion ill: 
[36] 



To a God-Child 



Though steeled the self-command and strong the will, 
The will must sometimes bend, the courage melt, 

A kinship riveted, till then unknown; 

A comfort doubly precious, for unsought; 

A friendship between bud and rose o'erblown; 

A benediction undeserved, unthought. 



Dear child of choice! Show me your heart again- 
My own to-night is over-charged with pain. 



At times I find your words are over- wise: 
Often your judgments far out-strip your years: 
Those brown eyes see too clearly through the tears- 
Strange tears, that in your hot young heart arise. 
Why must the load of life your soul oppress? 
Burdens for older shoulders should not weigh 
On you: these years, your heritage of play, 
Will ripen all too soon in earnestness. 

But I accept the message you have sent 



Yours is the insight, though my head is gray. 
In all humility and good intent 
I will, please God, give youth "the right of way' 
Much that is unexpressed, you understand: 
On your dark head, God lays his holy hand. 

r37] 



THE MISTLETOE 

A PARASITE am I— the Mistletoe. 
Idly I cling and grow 
To this great tree; 
He struggles upward to the light 
Sorely encumbered day and night: 
Broken and beaten, fights the fight; 
His many scars 
Record his wars 

'Gainst Time, Storm, Circumstance and 
Me. 

The dear sun sees his ripened beauty be 

Mere sustenance for me, 

For me, alone; 

His life, his strength, his all, I claim; 

His choicest branch, I lop and maim; 

I crucify this mighty frame 

Him hold I tight 

(The parasite!) 

For heart and mind and soul of him I 
own. 

I am the Mistletoe, and this my prey. 
He withers day by day, 
[38] 



The Mistletoe 



A grewsome thing 

No leaves of his with mine combine 

That crown of living green is — ^mine! 
Above the wreck I wrought, I shine! 
His lordly head 

Already dead 

His branches barren, dry and perishing. 

See how my clustering, pearly berries 

smile, 
And fleshy leaves, the while. 
Fatten on him. 

His life, to satisfy my greed; 
Remorselessly on him I feed. 

Nor all his giant wrestlings heed 

Slowly he dies 

A sacrifice 

To me— my passion and my whim. 




[39] 



TO AN ADOPTED CHILD 

OU say you came not as my others came — 
Not lineal to my blood, bearing my naffle- 
Though this be true, 
Let it not trouble vou. 



Son, I have marked and treasured, day by day, 
That mine, a mother-hand, has brushed away 

(A happy thought) 

All pain had wrought. 

And disappointments harsh, in your young soul. 
Now grown obedient to self-control, 

Now strong and clean, 

As I have seen. 

Therefore, dear child of mine by mutual choice, 
From open door and purse, from hand and voice. 

From heart and brain. 

Through me you drain 

Something to face the world with, something still 
That feeds the heart and nerves anew the will. 

That courage brings. 

That works and sings. 
[40] 



To an Adopted Child 



While in the flesh my others nearer stand, 
A kindred spirit from no stranger land 
They recognize 



A soul that tries 

In you, eyes that see clear — courage that dares — 
A brother born, and into all that's theirs, 

Unquestioning and true. 

They welcome you. 

The passing years, as slowly they unroll, 

Will bear you faithful witness that your soul 

Is born of me. 

This is maternity. 

Many fnay mother bodies. To impress 
Evolving souls is greater blessedness. 

We mothers may 

Work first in clay, 

But in that spirit stuff", if we are wise, 
A finer medium must we recognize. 

As artists know 

When colors glow 



On what was but cold canvas, just drawn in- 
What physical maternity, we win 
[41] 



To an Adopted Child 



That right, to work in mind. 
So nuns may find 

In this so orphaned world, young things to love, 
Hungry for home, their mother-mind to move! 

Without my name. 

You here I claim, 

A child of choice, who recognized his home 

The door stood open wide, and you have come— 

And I have won, 

Thank God — another son! 



[42] 



GOD'S BABY 

HIS head tipped back against the cushioned 
chair, 
A tired man, hurrying somewhere 
On the Congressional Express. 

The electric lights reflect in two small moons 

Upon his spectacles. 

He is asleep. 

A gentleman, no doubt a scholar too. 

Well-groomed, clean-shaven. 

With a pretty mouth now open wide 

In sleep. 

Across his brow a shadow falls. 

Some memory of pain, some scene recalled 

To spoil a dream. 

That passes, and the ghost of childhood steals. 

To take its place — dear gentle ghost! 

Smoothing the wrinkles out. 

Touching a furrow back 

Into the dimple that it was long years ago 

The man looks like a baby! 
God's baby, 

[43] 



God's Baby 



God's big, bald baby! 

The swinging train his cradle. 

The rumbling wheels his lullaby! 

"Last call for dinner!" 



Briskly he rises, moves to the dining-car- 

I see the empty sleeve 

God's soldier too. 




[44] 



THOMAS CARLYLE 
The Thames Embankment, Chelsea, London. 

IT seems that for a moment you have wandered 
From that familiar study in Cheyne Row, 

Where o'er so many problems you have pondered 

A quiet room, that all your readers know; 

Its double walls and ancient calf-bound volumes. 

The photograph of Goethe, on the wall 

Barren and still it is, and cold and lonely, 
A work-shop, in which Thought is all in all. 

In shabby dressing-gown and worn slippers. 
Towards the Thames Embankment you have strayed; 
And there you sit again, in contemplation. 
As when, in life, around you children played. 
Beneath your shaggy brows and tumbled gray hair. 
Your keen eyes pierce through non-essential things; 
And to the very core of life, your vision 
Swoops, like an eagle on unerring wings. 

Beyond this world's illusions, hopes and failures. 
Beholding Truth, in loveliness austere; 
Oh! what is left, but sad and patient tolerance 
Of this poor world, to eyes that see so clear? 
[45] 



PICCADILLY "FLOWER-GIRLS" 

THE shabbiest of old black sailor hats, 
The dingiest of shawls, 
This is their uniform. 
Red faces, knotted hands, 

And leering, cunning eyes 

This is the sisterhood of — ^flower-girls 

The Piccadilly flower-girls. 



Not graceful, young, alluring, 

As pictured in Romance, 

But lifting bloated faces to the crowds 

Who hurry past 

Halting the kindly ones with the refrain, 
"Buy-buy — my pretty Lydy 



For the love of God, sweet gentleman 

Buy, buy, buy, buy, buy." 

Age, rheumatism, poverty and vice 

Stamp them — who once were innocent and young. 

Above their fragrant wares they leer and grin. 

Their roses and carnations blush for them. 

The fumes of gin 

Defile their violets. 

[46] 



Piccadilly ''Flower-Girls' 



The world is gray, buildings and streets, are 

gray 

The atmosphere, heavy with smoke and fog, 

Is very gray. 

Enshrouded in gray shawls, 

With faces fiery red, 

These coarse old women importune the world 

To take, from their hard hands, 

Earth's gift, most fair, most fragrant, 

And most delicate, 

Most perishable, perfect and most sweet. 




[47] 



IN OLD BRUTON CHURCHYARD 

WHERE the patient dead are sleeping, 
Wander lovers fond and true; 
O'er these graves no eyes are weeping, 
All who wept are sleeping too. 

Mossy stones, time-stained and broken, 
Mark the green and level beds; 
And love's precious vows are spoken 
Over these forgotten heads. 

Older, wiser eyes escaping, 
Here Youth talks of work and joy, 
Murmurs plans the future shaping. 
Maid to fiian and girl to boy. 

A most charming spot for lovers! 
Through the trees bird-lovers flit, 
And a girlish bride discovers 
Some old maxim, sagely writ. 

Mingling with the choir's singing. 
Hear her sweet and wholesome laugh. 
Old brick walls the echo ringing. 
As she reads this epitaph: 
f48] 



In Old Bruton Churchyard 



"Like as the Bud Nipt from the Tree, 
So Death hath Parted You and Me: 
Therefore, Dear Spouse, I You Beseech 
Be Satisfied, for I am Rich." 

Simply thought and crudely graven, 
This antique philosophy 
Spans the space 'twixt earth and Heaven, 
Unites what was, is, and shall be. 




\m 



A LOST TALISMAN 

IT was but a little nugget of gold, 
Found somewhere in a barren field — 
Dearer to her than treasure untold, 
Richer than all that the gold mines yield. 



Out of her bosom it slipped, and fell. 
Lost — in the depth of a summer wave! 
Out of her life slipped — who can tell?- 
A dearer dream to a deeper grave. 



[50] 



TO THE WOUNDED 

|0 you, Blind Boy 
Whom I met to-day 



Let me pass on the thought 

Without delay, 

Which God gave to me, 

As I scanned your face: 

Those eyes, that closed so suddenly in pain, 

Scorched out upon some hellish battle-plain, 

Perhaps have opened in a sweeter place 

Than any known to us: 

To-day you see 

With those lost eyes. 

Blind to ffiy world and me, 

Far-reaching purposes and will of God. 

With head erect and valiant heart. 

You share 

The spiritual visions, passing fair, 

Of all victorious ones, who kissed the rod. 

And You, 

Whose hand can never more caress 
[51] 



To the Wounded 



Mother or child, the angels pause, to bless 

You, 

As they use the hand you thought had died. 

And You, 

The strong-limbed, laughter-loving, fleet 



If messenger of God, on your crushed feet 
Hurries some heavenly mission to fulfill. 
Your verv crutches 



Have been glorified! 




[52] 



IN A RIPENING FIELD 

BY what strange alchemy, dear little 
Roots, 
Draw you your sustenance 
From Earth's brown breast? 
By what sure impulse 
Do you seek, 
And find? 

Sucking the moisture like a hungry child. 
Stealing the sun, with fingers magical, 
And all th' invisible sweetness of the air, 
And rare strong gifts 
My poor thought may not name? 

Oh, by what synthesis. 

Here in your laboratory of green stalks, 

Combine so many elements for good, 

And turn the hidden treasures 

Of the soil 

Into the daily bread of all mankind? 

How work this miracle 

Before my eyes? 

Phosphate and lime. 
Hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, become 
[53] 



In a Ripening Field 



Physical force and everlasting mind. 

Eternal life 

Blooms, from such roots as yours. 

You stir my heart 

With many harmonies! 

And as the wind sways all your golden heads 

A blade of grass 

Could strike me to my knees. 

In every stalk of you 

I meet my God. 




[54] 



TO MY GRAPE-VINE 

MEN wound you, with their pruning, ere the Spring 
Starts your young blood anew; 
Unmerciful and harsh it seems, the thing 
Their keen blades do to you. 



May comes, and all your climbing sap runs sweet 

The rough bark under; 
Sending young shoots, like eager hands and feet 

Intent on plunder. 



June comes, and in your foliaged cool recesses 

The pale abundant bloom 
Promises all the purple fruit, that blesses 

The harvest days to come. 



Through summer suns it ever grows more precious, 

And scented leaves protect 
And screen the burden, daily more delicious, 

Your clusters, sun-beflecked. 
[55] 



To My Gr ape-Vine 



October finds your hard-won treasure ravished. 

Naked and sear and torn 
You stand. Where is the love that you have lavished? 

The fruit, that you have borne? 




[56] 



TO MY SISTER 

WHEN we were children, 
You and I, 
And the days danced 
Innocently by, 
How all unthought 
Were Pain and Sin! 
Night came: our Mother 
"Tucked us in," 
And the friendly stars 
Winked from the skies, 
And all our songs 
Were lullabies. 

When we were girls. 
Gray-eyed and slim. 
Life's song was a lyric. 

Or a hymn 

The tragic notes 

Were still unknown. 

And the foreboding 

Undertone. 

We worshipped and dreamed, 

In gardens dim, 

[57] 



To My Sister 



Of a love that should fill life 
To the brim. 

When strong emotions 

Ebbed and flowed, 

And Anguish 

All her gifts bestowed, 

In birth, death, change, 

The spirit saw 

Of Pain 

The over-ruling law; 

Forces that beat us 

To our knees. 

Epics were wrung 

From years like these. 

Now one by one 

Each song has died, 

Leaving the soul 

Unsatisfied, 

Yet ever striving 

To express 

Some still un-voiced 

Inwardness. 

Blessed, sanctified. 

Through each of them. 

It grandly chants 

Its Requiem. 

[58] 



WORSHIP 

HAVE you builded an altar, Brother mine, 
To a God Unknown? 
Adorned it fair with fancies rare 

And precious stone? 
Wrought out its pattern with fervent skill 

And young delight? 
brought from far lands with tender hands 
Its gold and white? 

Have you lifted the soul of you, Brother mine, 

To a thing afar? 
Have you felt it smile on your pain the while 

Like a friendly star? 
Then know that each gem you set in love. 

Each step you trod, 
Each reverent care, each faltered prayer. 

Led you to God. 



[59] 



THE SOUL OF YOUR MOTHER 

NO stormy beating of a tide 
Wrecking itself with futile roar. 
But calmest flood, unruffled, wide, 
A generous River, flowing o'er. 

No fragile flower, to droop and die, 
Transplanted to a harsher clime; 
But searching root, crest lifted high. 
To face its fate or bide its time. 

No transient beauty of a flame, 
But far, clear splendor of a star; 
Nor needing praise, nor fearing blame; 
The perfect Thing no change can mar. 



reo] 



EVEN SO 

AS star-light on the desert's waste, 
As rare thought spoken to a fool, 
As jewel thrown in stagnant pool, 
Even so is love, Love, when mis-placed. 

As beacon light o'er treacherous sea; 
To new-sown seed, as summer rain; 
As sunshine is to ripening grain, 
Such is your love and more, to me. 



[61] 



OUT OF THE DUST 

A Woman of the street is passing by; 
Powder and paint have toughened her fair skin; 
Her sacred bosom bare to every eye, 
(Fountain of wholesome life that should have been!) 
With flagging step she plies her dreary trade; 
Her once fine draperies are soiled and thin; 
Excess and Want, grim rivals! These have made 
Guide-posts for her into the paths of sin. 

A younger sister at her side keeps pace; 
So pretty! And so strong of limb, and vain! 
Sorrow and sin have left as yet no trace 
On cheek or lip, or seared her silly brain. 
Waste not your pity — she enjoys the game! 
She may be loving daughter, loyal friend; 
Her tragedy lies not in open shame. 
But in bright beauty burning to its end. 

No scruples worry her; her candle still 

Burns merrily both ends, though flickering low; 

Excitement, dissipation, folly, will 

Soon dig her little grave, and she will go 

r62] 



Out of the Dust 



Blov*^n as before the gale, the fallen leaf- 



Gone — as the odor of a once fresh flower; 
Death soon will bind her in his harvest sheaf, 
Honestly sinning through her youth's short hour. 

The crucifix that hangs above their beds 

Looks calmly down on their debauchery; 

Keeps faithful watch o'er their dishonored heads. 

Purging their souls with mystic charity. 

These children of our Father, though they stray 

Far from the narrow path their feet should keep, 

These daughters of a king, know how to pray 

And o'er their failures Heaven's angels weep. 



[63] 



BABBLING OF GREEN FIELDS 

BROADWAY or Leicester Square — it matters not, 
An old man lies on an untidy couch. 
His face, expressive once and finely cut, 
Become the countenance of the chronic Grouch, 
Gray, faded, fallen: 

the little veins, 
A purple net-work like a railroad map 
On nose and cheek, have turned a deeper gray. 

He does his final "turn" to-night, poor chap 

A worn-out old comedian, you would say. 
Night falls. 

He neither hears nor heeds the noise 
Of children in the darkening street below. 
Pale little girls and rascally small boys 
Fighting or playing in the week-old snow. 



He hears a twittering 

Of birds that flit 

And flutter {are green branches 

O'er him bent?) 

Chirping and carolling 

In woods sun-lit: 

[64] 



Babbling of Green Fields 



A far-away suggestion 
Of content 

He hears the distant gurgle 

Of a brook 

He knows the sweet sound well, 

Knows well the spot 

Where, fretting 'gainst a pebbly shoal 

Or rock, 

Crossing his father's old green 

Pasture lot. 

The stream grows petulant 

Along its way. 

But in an instant, 

Its small anger spent. 

It bubbles on, 

To-day as yesterday. 

Singing around all obstacles. 

Content. 



The Janitor comes in, to bring the bill. 
He stands quite thoughtful, staring at the bed. 
"B' God! Ye looks fer this, in vaudeville," 
He gays, as dubiously he shakes his head. 
"And here's the steam, a-whizzling — I think 

Escapin', with a waste to thry a saint 

[65] 



Babbling of Green Fields 



He's left the watter rinnin' in the sink- 



ril make a light. The Meter's out. There aint 
A penny in his pocket for the slot. 
An' hear 'im talk — o' rinnin' brooks — and burrds- 
And blossoms over -head — and God knows wot — 
I call that too nonsinsical for worrds " 



Yet with a tender hand he smoothes the sheet, 
And spreads a blanket o'er the icy feet. 




[66] 



NOT WHILE THE RIVER FLOWS 

CLAIM her, Oh, River! wonderful Lover! 
Drag to thy deepest, encompass her, cover 
All of her weakness, her burden of pain; 
Fold her, enwrap her, rock her to sleep. 
Hide her and cover her deep, deep, deep, 
With all of her heartaches, her striving and strain. 



Silent and cool is the bed of the River: 
Past all the passion, the fret and the fever. 
Done with life's drudgery, there would she lie. 
Deaf to the surging of waters above her, 
Lost to the voices that chide her or love her. 
Spared all the effort, a world passing by. 



Hot throbbing pulses arrested and chilled. 
Brick-bruised feet to be smoother out and stilled: 
Oh, merciful River! gently receive her! 
Bury each sorrow, each memory stirred. 
Each clinging regret, each longing deferred. 
With thee, out of sight, may each haunting fear leave 
her! 

[67] 



Not While the River Flows 



Take the brave blood, where the fire of her dances- 



The quick, burning brain, with its teeming sweet 

fancies, 
(Though the flesh of her falters, the heart of her 

fights) 
Now once for all, to escape the confusions, 
Peaceful to lie, with her own dear illusions. 
To find, in thy arms, all her depths and her heights! 







[68] 



FROM ROOM 310 
PROVIDENCE HOSPITAL, WASHINGTON 

UPON her snowy cot, propped up on pillows 
My darling lies, 
Her great soft eyes 
Following the sky-line over rippling billows 
Of Autumn foliage, russet gold and green. 

Standing for right and human brotherhood, 
The world's great temple of Democracy, 
Far-reaching in its purposes of good. 
Staunch in its broad and generous policy. 
The Nation's Capitol: its gray dome shining, 

(While the world reads) 

For Freedom pleads, 

Fair play and Liberty boldly defining 

Fit emblem of the PRESENT it is seen. 

♦ *«♦**» 

The Library, its golden crown up-lifting, 

For Culture stands: 

All ages, lands 
Pour in their riches, which its wise are sifting. 
That to our children's children, may be brought 
[69] 



From Room 310 



Knowledge: their treasure-house of what is PAST; 
Housing the legacies of all man's thought; 
The wisdom, weighed and tested, that shall last 
When much has perished which we dearly bought. 

*»***♦♦ 

And third, its cross borne high, an old church tower, 

Piercing the blue 

Between these two. 
Bears witness to the spiritual Power 
Eternal, and a FUTURE sure, serene. 

Law, Learning and Religion; lofty three, 

Facing my child across the tree-tops green; 

Oh God! Those dying eyes have faith to see. 

And soul to know what these fair symbols mean — • 

Thank God, her innocent, far-reaching mind, 

Can daily inspiration give, and find! 



[70] 



MY DAUGHTER 

AGAINST the open window 
In silhouette sits she, 
And her slender fingers wander 
From ivory key to key. 

Her little piquant profile 
Outlined 'gainst April green 
Beneath her filmy boudoir-cap 
Her soft dark hair is seen. 

'Tis thus, this sweet spring ffiorning, 
In her flower'd soft kimono 
Singing her old-time melodies 
To you, dear friend, I've shown her! 

^Tis thus my spirit sees her. 
In girlish, graceful guise, 

Her capable sweet fingers 

Her wistful, star-like eyes 



In song the dear lips parted- 
Young hope in every breath- 
Intangible, but living 
That life we mis-call death, 
[71] 



TO DEATH 
\\rELL met, oh Death! Old Friend! Well 

In this night's storm and blustering weather! 
The whole wide world with tears is wet 
Since we a vigil kept together. 
The avenging angel passing by 
Marks many first-born sons to die. 

I find you changed — You bow your head; 
Your back is bent — Your strong hands tremble. 
Death should rejoice in such brave Dead 
As the good host that you assemble. 
These chosen souls, in your command! 
This army, for the spirit-land! 

On toll of Age, and slow disease 

You need not wait for your recruiting. 

Genius invents new ways than these 

The burning, poisoning, drowning, shooting 

Thus shall your gray battalions grow. 
Thus, shall your serried ranks o'er-flow. 

Oh, Over-burdened and most Wise! 
Man's kindest friend, most tender lover! 
[72] 



To Death 



With depths of percy in your eyes, 
Spreading o'er sin a sacred cover; 
Opening the way to worthy toil, 
Sealing the Past in silence deep. 
Filling with what immortal oil 
The lamp God gave each soul to keep! 

Wiping out sorrow with a breath 

Well met, oh dear and weary Death! 
"Eloquent, just and mighty Death!" 



[73] 



PERSPECTIVE. 

DIM distances of purple hills, 
Seen through a veil of summer air, 
Disturbing details lost in mist, 
And what is clear, most wondrous fair 



So are the years, kind, lovely years, 
Of which the poet seldom sings, 
The years that bring the bird's-eye view. 
Dispassionate, of earthly things. 

Sweet years, in which we cease to war 
'Gainst primal instincts, selfish sin- 



Great years, that in perspective place 
Trifles that were, or might have been. 

Still in the world, still of the world. 
Still full of joy in youth and spring. 
With keener faculties of mind. 
And love become a sexless thing 



Sexless and selfless — so, a tool 
For little miracles each day — 
[74] 



Perspective 

Time, when the soul, with clearer sense. 
Its long-loved idols, each may weigh 



Are glimpses of the great Beyond 
Now opened to us — tenderly? 
And can it be, sometimes we hear 
Far ripples of th' eternal sea? 




[75] 



COULD I HAVE KNOWN 

COULD I have known how brief your years, my 
Treasure, 
I had relaxed in many a little way; 
Asked less of tender immaturity, 
Given more gifts and longer hours of play. 
Could I have known how short would be your stay. 

Those little disciplines and self-denials 
Oppress my heart as blasphemies to-day; 
I pictured you mother of many children, 
And sought to strengthen you along the way 
Of this crude world, in which you did not stay. 

Perhaps in zeal for all the years approaching. 

Maternal pride (for which God hears me groan) 

Blind consecration to a far-off future, 

I pictured you as a fair corner-stone, 

And dreamed the building's plan was all my own! 

The Master-builder planned. The great Designer 
Whose purposes my poor faith could not read. 
Reached a strong hand and claimed what he had 
loaned me, 

[76] 



Could I Have Known 



Bidding it answer to a nobler need, 
Beyond my vision, futile dreams or creed. 

Mine was the earthly thought, mine was the error; 
All things obscure are clear to-day to you. 

You love me. God forgives my human blunders 

Perhaps his tests prove my foundation true 

Perhaps I builded better than I knew. 



[77] 



TO ONE INVISIBLE 

YOU have escaped the years of disillusion, 
Faded, tear-furrowed cheek and whitened hair, 
The dreams and hopes that end but in confusion. 
And heart-aches, harvest of right faithful care 

(Oh, little One with God, remember me.) 

You did not wait to see the buds of April 
Bloom, fade and fall and settle to decay; 
Nor rosy skies of early summer day, spill 
Each radiant hour, and turn to ashen gray. 

(Oh, sweet, immortal Youth, remember me.) 

You will not stand by open graves of daughters 
You longed to see with babies at the breast; 
Nor stem a tide of ever-deepening waters. 
Nor passionately plead with God for rest 

(Oh, Life grown perfect there, remember me.) 

So day by day, my Darling, God grows dearer 
For every glimpse through you vouchsafed to me, 
[78] 



To One Invisible 



You live in Him, and I, even I, am sharer 
In all rare services I may not see. 

(Oh, free and valiant Soul, remember — me.) 



i'-C?, 




[79] 



LIFE AND DEATH 

IN the midst of life we are in death." 
I have stood knee-deep in death 
To-day, 

As there fell to my feet 
The roses sweet 

That I trimmed from their stalks, 
In brown decay. 
The million buds 
Which a week ago 
Unfolded blushing one by one, 
Fragrant and fair, 
Each heart laid bare 
To rain and wind and dew and sun. 

In the midst of "Death" we are in life! 

High over-head in the sky of blue, 

Though veiled in cloud. 

There thrills aloud 

A lark's note, piercing my dull heart 

through! 
And the locusts, 
Seventeen years asleep, 

rso] 



Life and Death 



How they beat, with an air-ship's mighty 

hum, 
As they serenade their Pharaoh dead, 
In mad delight 
That their day has come! 

This is a song from a garden green, 

Where hand in hand 

(As doubt and faith, as peace and strife) 

Walk life and death 

Yea, side by side, 
As Love and Bride, 
Walk Death and Life. 

This is a song of a summer day. 
Sung by the wind to the answering reeds, 
Truer than all of the cruel creeds. 
That Life is Death and Death is Life, 
And that God is all that the spirit needs. 



[81] 



UNITY 

MAN plants his gardens far and thick, 
Builds up his homes of dull red brick, 
Of marble white, of granite gray; 
His clubs and universities, 
His temples where he tries to pray. 
Poor faulty clod! 
He tries to pray! 
God 

Pours his sunshine down on these, 
God spreads his glowing skies above, 
God sows, broad-cast, the seeds of love, 
God gives the wealth of all the trees. 

As evening falls, distinctions fade; 
Brick, granite, marble, take one shade; 
The jarring thoughts of many men, 
Their warring animosities, 

Are gathered all in tone again 

The details lost. 

In tone again 

God 

Speaks at eve, to all of these; 
God's still, small voice, in twilight hour, 
[82] 



Unity 



Commands us with paternal power, 
To note the leaves on all his trees. 



Each has its own identity. 

Yet all exist in harmony; 

Whatever discords storms may breed, 

In spite of all complexities, 

Race draws to race and creed to creed; 

Race draws to race. 

And creed to creed; 

God 

Binds in one our theories; 

Humanity, in every land. 

One — in the shadow of God's hand 

One — as the leaves on all his trees. 




[83] 



AN INVITATION 

WILL you come with me to my open spaces, 
And share my stretch of sky, my rolling 
hills? 

There are some quiet places 

In my kingdom 

Peace sits upon my everlasting hills; 
And the Beyond is ever beckoning to us : 
Between the trees, the distances invite 
The soul to ever wider journeyings. 

My Trees, 

Aristocrats, Conquerors of Pain, 

My trees will speak to you 

As long ago they spoke 

To One sore-pressed, in sad Gethsemane; 

Will show you the eternal laws that rule them. 

And teach you how, despite all circumstance, 

Storm and Disease and Parasite and Hunger, 

They bear themselves erect, 

Steadfast to seek their highest. 



'&* 



My Weeds, 

My dear plebeian weeds, 
[84] 



An Invitation 



Will smile at you from unexpected corners. 

Proving the beauty of the common thing; 

Will give their all, 

Nor know how poor their all is. 

Ask no return, 

Not one caress in passing. 

Even from your careless feet. 

They are "the roses of the wilderness," 

True to Isaiah's ancient prophecy: 

They are the ephemeral "grasses of a day," 

Immortalized in David's minstrelsy: 

They are "the lilies of the field," which met 

The calm, observant, kindly eyes of Jesus. 

My Birds, 

My harmless ones, 

Destined to swift and certain tragedy, 

My birds will be your friends! 

My pair of blue-birds. 

With breasts brown as the up-turned soil 

And wings 

Blue as the unclouded skies, will tell you 

How heaven and earth may meet 

In one small life! 

My crested cardinal 

Will sing his love-song 

Such madrigal as you have never heard! 
[85] 



An Invitation 



My stars, 

My sweet eternal stars, 

Will shine for you as long ago they shone 

O'er Bethlehem 

Will lead you to the thing you too 
Are seeking 



Shine for you 

Shine for you 

Till all the stars of all the heavens are yours! 

Will you come with me, 

To my open spaces. 

And share my stretch of sky, my rolling hills? 




[86] 



NEW FIELDS AND FAIR 

OH, tell me not, dear Friends, 
That Death is Rest: 
It is not rest I crave: 
Rather I ask to do and be, my best 
Beyond the grave. 

Tell me my passing out from things of earth 
Is death to sense and sin, 
But a new birth to Righteousness: 
Tell me my life may be 
Sacred and fervent there, in nobler energy: 
Tell me 

That all untrammeled, I may move 
Wherever led by loyalty and, love! 
Tell me 

This soul, from mortal bondage free. 
May find new fields and fair; 
New Opportunity. 

Rid of the freight of blood and sense and nerve, 
Unweariedly to labor and to serve. 
I need no rest: 
I only ask to be above defeat: 
Rich — in vitality. 

[87] 



New Fields and Fair 



Oh, tell me not, dear Friends, 

That Death is Sleep: 

For sleep could only mean 

Lost Power: 

So, for me, no slumber deep 

Beneath fresh boughs of green! 

My garments you may tenderly lay by- 

My body too. 

But, oh, that is not I! 



I shall escape, as wild bird from the mesh, 

When I have laid aside this cloak of flesh! 

I shall be up and doing! 

I shall find 

New, golden chances for my busy mind! 

New souls to love 

Old friends, to serve and bless 



When I am bom anew, to Righteousness! 
When I am strong and clean, and fit to be 
God's servant to my kind. 
Eternally. 



[88] 



SHALL I LEARN FEAR? 

AND shall I weaken? 
I, who am part of all that is, 
I, in whose veins run strong adevnturous gifts 
From knight and pioneer and old Crusader? 
Shall I learn Fear 
First, when my head is white? 

(Yet they who dread no sudden agony, 

Who laugh in treachery's face, 

Meet smilingly 

Death, battle-field, child-birth or swift disaster, 

Shrink from the thought of gallant blood grown chill, 

Of days inactive and of slow decay). 

Then must I weaken? 

Safe-guarded by the goodness of my God, 
And fortified by beautiful example, 
I, whose vast heritage 

Is all the world and all of man's achievement. 
All generous deeds, free speech and honest thought? 
I, unto whom are given 
The kisses of young children, and the faith 
Of men and women nobler than myself? 
[89] 



Shall I Learn Fear? 



The fields of green and gold, 

The autuffin's somber glory, 

Still waters, silent woods and open seas, 

And all the stretches of the starry skies? 

I, whose poor blundering steps 

Dear angels watch, lest I, even such as I, 

Should harm the human brother I would serve. 

Or bruise my heedless feet against the stone! 

To weaken? 

When the race is nearly run? 

When swallowed up in distances behind me 

Lie all the jungles where my youth was torn 

By flowering thorny impulses like tropic vines 

Entangled, the poisonous with the pure 

And stony hill-sides of experience, 

So hard to climb! 

Splendid, when from the summits 

The soul looks back along the way it journeyed, 

To valleys wrapped in mist. 

Dear God, 
I shall not weaken. 
Obediently I come, bringing my best. 
The gold of all the good Thou gavest me! 
With this small house of clay, which housed my soul, 
(And I have loved it — it has been my friend) 
[90] 



Shall I Learn Fear? 



I leave the self less worthy, and to Thee 

Bring but that better part. 

Lord, 

Let it be a tool 

Within Thy hand. 




[91] 



Wi3 








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